Hell House (5 page)

12/21 – 6:42 P.M.

The dining hall was sixty feet in length, and as high as it was wide-twenty-seven feet in both directions. There were two entrances to it-one an archway from the great hall, the other a swinging door leading to the kitchen.

Its ceiling was divided into a series of elaborately carved panels, its floor polished travertine. Its walls were paneled to a height of twelve feet, stone-blocked above. In the center of the west wall was a giant fireplace, its Gothic mantel reaching to the ceiling. Spaced at intervals above the length of the forty-foot table in the center of the hall hung four immense sanctuary lamps, wired for electricity. Thirty chairs stood around the table, all of them constructed of antique walnut with wine-red velvet upholstery.

The four were sitting at one end of the table, Barrett at its head. The unseen couple from Caribou Falls had left the supper at six-fifteen.

"If no one objects, I'd like to try a sitting tonight," Florence said.

Barrett's hand froze momentarily before continuing to spoon himself a second portion of broccoli. "I have no objection," he said.

Florence glanced at Edith, who shook her head. She looked at Fischer. "Fine," he said, reaching for the coffeepot.

Florence nodded. "After supper, then." Her plate was empty; she'd been drinking only water since they'd sat down.

"Would
you
care to sit in the morning, Mr. Fischer?" Barrett asked.

Fischer shook his head. "Not yet."

Barrett nodded. There; it's done, he thought. He'd asked and been refused. Since his part in the project required the services of a physical medium, Deutsch couldn't object to his sending for one of his own people.
Excellent
, he thought. He'd get it settled in the morning.

"Well," he said, "I must say that the house has scarcely lived up to its reputation so far."

Fischer looked up from the scraps of food on his plate. "It hasn't taken our measure yet," he said. His lips flexed briefly in a humorless smile.

"I think we'd be mistaken to consider the house as the haunting force," Florence said. "Quite evidently, the trouble is created by surviving personalities-whoever they may be. The only one we can be sure of is Belasco."

"You contacted him today, did you?" Barrett asked. His tone was mild, but Florence sensed the goading in it. "No," she said. "But Mr. Fischer did when he was here in 1940. And Belasco's presence
has
been documented."

"Reported," Barrett said.

Florence hesitated. Finally she said, "I think it might be well for us to lay our cards on the table, Doctor Barrett. I take it you are still convinced that no such things as ghosts exist."

"If, by that, you mean surviving personalities," said Barrett, "you are quite correct."

"Despite the fact that they've been observed throughout the ages?" Florence asked. "Have been seen by more than one person at a time? Been seen by animals? Been photographed? Have imparted information that was later verified? Have touched people? Moved objects? Been weighed?"

"These are facts in evidence of a phenomenon, Miss Tanner, not proof of ghosts."

Florence smiled wearily. "I don't know how to answer that," she said.

Barrett returned her smile, gesturing with his hands as though to say: We don't agree, so why not let it go at that?

"You don't accept survival, then," Florence persisted.

"It's a charming notion," Barrett said. "I have no objection to it, so long as I am not expected to give credence to the concept of communicating with the so-called survivors."

Florence regarded him sadly. "You can say that, having heard the sobs of joy at séances?"

"I've heard similar sobs in mental institutions."

"
Mental institutions?
"

Barrett sighed. "No offense intended. But the evidence is clear that belief in communication with the dead has led more people to madness than to peace of mind."

"
That isn't true
," said Florence. "If it were, all attempts at spirit communication would have ended long ago. They haven't, though; they've lasted through the centuries." She looked intently at Barrett, as though trying to understand his point of view. "You call it a charming notion, Doctor. Surely it's more than that. What about the religions that accept the idea of life after death? Didn't Saint Paul say: 'If the dead rise not from the grave, then is our religion vain'?"

Barrett didn't respond.

"But you don't agree," she said.

"I don't agree."

"Have you any alternative to offer, though?"

"
Yes
." Barrett returned her gaze with challenge. "An alternative far more interesting, albeit far more complex and demanding; namely,
the subliminal self
, that vast, concealed expanse of the human personality which, iceberglike, inheres beneath the so-called threshold of consciousness. That is where the fascination lies, Miss Tanner. Not in the speculative realms of afterlife, but
here, today; the challenge of ourselves
. The undiscovered mysteries of the human spectrum, the infrared capacities of our bodies, the ultraviolet capacities of our minds. This is the alternative I offer:
the extended faculties of the human system not as yet established
. The faculties by which, I am convinced, all psychic phenomena are produced."

Florence remained silent for a few moments before she smiled. "We'll see," she said.

Barrett nodded once. "Indeed we shall."

Edith looked around the dining hall. "When was this house built?" she asked.

Barrett looked at Fischer. "Do you know?"

"Nineteen-nineteen," Fischer answered.

"From several things you said today, I have the impression that you know quite a bit about Belasco," Barrett said. "Would you care to tell us what you know? It might not be amiss to"-he repressed a smile-know our adversary."

Amused? thought Fischer. You won't be when Belasco and the others get to work. "What do you want to know?" he asked.

"Whatever you can tell us," Barrett said. "A general account of his life might be helpful."

Fischer poured himself another cupful of coffee, then set the pot back on the table, wrapped his hands around the cup, and began to speak.

"He was born in 1879, the illegitimate son of Myron Sandler, an American munitions maker, and Noelle Belasco, an English actress."

"Why did he take his mother's name?" Barrett asked.

"Sandler was married," Fischer said. He paused, went on. "His childhood is a blank except for isolated incidents. At five he hanged a cat to see if it would revive for the second of its nine lives. When it didn't, he became infuriated and chopped the cat to pieces, flinging the parts from his bedroom window. After that, his mother called him Evil Emeric."

"He was raised in England, I presume," Barrett interjected.

Fischer nodded. "The next verified incident was a sexual assault on his younger sister," he said.

Barrett frowned. "Is it all to be like this?"

"He didn't live an exemplary life, Doctor," Fischer said, a caustic edge to his voice.

Barrett hesitated. "Very well." he said. He looked at Edith. "You object, my dear?" Edith shook her head. He glanced at Florence. "Miss Tanner?"

"Not if it will help us understand," she said. Barrett gestured toward Fischer, bidding him continue.

"The assault put his sister in the hospital for two months," Fischer said. "I won't go into details. Belasco was sent to a private school-he was ten and a half at the time. There, he was abused for a number of years, mostly by one of the homosexual teachers. Belasco later invited the man to visit his house for a week; at the end of that time, the retired teacher went home and hanged himself."

"What did Belasco look like?" Barrett asked, attempting to guide the course of Fischer's account.

Fischer stared into his memory. After a while, he began to quote: " 'His teeth are those of a carnivore. When he bares them in a smile, it gives one the impression of an animal snarling. His face is white, for he despises the sun, eschews the out-of-doors. He has astonishingly green eyes, which seem to possess an inner light of their own. His forehead is broad, his hair and short-trimmed beard jet black. Despite his handsomeness, his is a frightening visage, the face of some demon who has taken on a human aspect'"

"Whose description is that?" asked Barrett.

"His second wife's. She committed suicide here in 1927."

"You know that description word for word," said Florence. "You must have read it many times."

Fischer's smile was somber. "As the Doctor said," he answered, "know thine adversary."

"Was he tall or short?" asked Barrett.

"Tall, six-foot-five. 'The Roaring Giant,' he was called."

Barrett nodded. "Education?"

"New York. London. Berlin. Paris. Vienna. No specific course of study. Logic, ethics, religion, philosophy."

"Just enough with which to rationalize his actions, I imagine," Barrett said. "He inherited his money from his father, did he?"

"Mostly. His mother left him several thousand pounds, but his father left him ten and a half million dollars-his share of the proceeds from the sales of rifles and machine guns."

"That could have given him a sense of guilt," said Florence.

"Belasco never felt a twinge of guilt in his life."

"Which only serves to verify his mental aberration," Barrett said.

"His mind may have been aberrant, but it was brilliant, too," Fischer went on. "He could master any subject he chose to study. He spoke and read a dozen languages. He was versed in natural and metaphysical philosophy. He'd studied all the religions, cabalist and Rosicrucian doctrines, ancient mysteries. His mind was a storehouse of information, a powerhouse of energy." He paused. "
A charnel house of fancies
."

"Did he ever love a single person in his life?" asked Florence.

"He didn't believe in love," Fischer answered. "He believed in will. 'That rare
vis viva
of the self, that magnetism, that most secret and prevailing delectation of the mind: influence.' Unquote. Emeric Belasco, 1913."

"What did he mean by 'influence'?" asked Barrett.

"The power of the mind to dominate," Fischer said. "The control of one human being by another. He obviously had the kind of hypnotic personality men like Cagliostro and Rasputin had. Quote: 'No one ever went too close to him, lest his terrible presence overpower and engulf them.' His second wife, again."

"Did Belasco have any children?" Florence asked.

"A son, they say. No one's really sure, though."

"You said the house was built in 1919," Barrett said. "Did the corruption start immediately?"

"No, it was innocent at first.
Haut monde
dinner parties. Lavish dances in the ballroom. Soirees. People traveling from all over the country and world to spend a weekend here. Belasco was a perfect host-sophisticated, charming.

"Then-" He raised his right hand, thumb and index finger almost touching. "In 1920: '
un peu
,' as he referred to it. A
soupcon
of debasement. The introduction, bit by bit, of open sensuality-first in talk, then in action. Gossip. Court intrigues. Aristocratic machinations. Flowing wine and bedroom-hopping. All of it induced by Belasco and his
influences
.

"What he did, in this phase, was create a parallel to eighteenth-century European high society. It would take too long to describe in detail how he did it. It was subtle, though, engineered with great finesse."

"I presume that the result of this was primarily sexual license," Barrett said.

Fischer nodded. "Belasco formed a club he called Les Aphrodites. Every night-later, two and three times a day- they'd hold a meeting; what Belasco called his Sinposium. Having all partaken of drugs and aphrodisiacs, they'd sit around that table in the great hall talking about sex until everyone was what Belasco referred to as 'lubricous.' Then an orgy would commence.

"Still, it wasn't exclusively sex. The principle of excess was applied to every phase of life here. Dining became gluttony, drinking turned to drunkenness. Drug addiction mounted. And, as the physical spectrum of his guests was perverted, so, too, was their mental."

"How?" asked Barrett.

"Visualize twenty to thirty people set loose upon each other mentally-encouraged to do whatever they wanted to one another; no limits set but those of imagination. As their minds began to open up-or close in, if you like-so did every aspect of their lives together. People stayed here months, then years. The house became their way of life. A way of life that grew a little more insane each day. Isolated from the contrast of normal society, the society in this house became the norm. Total self-indulgence became the norm. Debauchery became the norm. Brutality and carnage soon became the norm."